Tempest of Bravoure

  Tempest of Bravoure

  Kingdom Ascent

  Castaway

  City of the Dead

  Tempest of Bravoure

  City of the Dead

  Valena D’Angelis

  Tempest of Bravoure—City of the Dead by Valena D’Angelis Published by fabled ink.

  www.fabled.ink

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  © 2021 Valena D’Angelis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form on by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Cover by 100 Covers.

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  Maps by Valena D’Angelis.

  Character art by Valena D’Angelis.

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  First Edition, September 1, 2021

  To you, dear reader, who came here with me for the final show

  Contents

  1. Menace

  2. 189

  3. Duty

  4. Nightfall

  5. Mort

  6. Wayfinder

  7. Wolves

  8. Wolfsbane

  9. Sud

  10. Legacy

  The Wolf Pack

  The Nobles

  11. Siege

  12. Mal

  13. Hope

  Father and Son

  14. Siege II

  15. Hollow

  16. Family

  17. Reckoning

  Phorus Adal

  18. Necropolis

  19. Necropolis II

  20. Necropolis III

  21. Anew

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  Menace

  Darkness had fallen deep in the realm of gold. This story of sins once foretold, unfolds again, and must be told anew. After the Rule of Sharr, Bravoure had no choice but to ensure mistakes that had led to the oppression should never be made again, even if force was required. Bravoure shone, but her people were afraid. A merciless regime, a crazed army of soldiers whose sole purpose was to protect the oh-so-dear Bravan values that had twisted to this rusted tablet of stone. Fueled by the thirst for blood, soldiers were ready to go to war, while people were ready to run...or revolt.

  Another threat loomed over the commoner’s head, one that, for now, recoiled deep in the shadows. The Nameless One slept, but his children folded before cold, decaying feet. In the radiance of glory restored, the undead tide had risen to prominence. Though glory may not be the appropriate word, as two hundred years after the first magi’s return, Bravoure had become a military force even the Dwellunder would fear.

  Northeast of Mokvar, above the plains and among the forests of low Gurdal, lay the ruins of the old city of Antaris. Destroyed during the Rule of Sharr, the ruins became frozen in time, covered by vagabond moss, poison ivy, tarnished by the shade of old sins. Abandoned, even by Bravoure’s magi who still wandered the woods in search of a forgotten past.

  Sol never shone upon the ruins. Not a ray of light, no morning shimmer, just the darkness of a cold, everlasting night. People say monsters—dark creatures—lurked among the collapsed bricks and columns of the crumbled city. When the Sister of Mort wandered the ruins, she felt the glares of a thousand of these hungered creatures observe her, watch her as she made her way to the center of the fossilized Magi Faculty of Antaris. Her fur shawl flowed behind her into the windless air as she walked, head held high, clicking the bottom of her bone scepter to her stroll’s rhythm.

  She reached the circular platform of the entrance hall, still intact, covered in oozing blackness. There he was. Seated on a throne made of entangled stones, the lich stared at the priestess with hollow eyes. His skin, rigid from years of decay, fringed by a shadow darker than eternal night. His hands, brittle and scrawny, torn pieces of flesh revealing his grey bones. The garments he had worn long ago had deteriorated with time. Only the rags of a dark purple robe remained intact, the silk untouched despite years of solitude. The priestess halted her steps and looked at him. Chills ran down her spine. A terrible sense of fright spread from the nape of her neck to the bottom of her feet. She was absolutely terrified. But she was on a mission. One that could change the fate of the world.

  She sank to her knees, bowing before the Undead King.

  “Lord of the Night,” the priestess offered. She paused to hear his reaction, but only his slowed breathing echoed her address. “I have come from the capital.”

  She waited for him to respond. Nothing. She swallowed the lump in her throat and took a deep breath.

  “The city is about to blaze,” she began again, her tone solemn this time. “The hour has come. There will be a reckoning.”

  A long exhale came out of his lipless mouth. The Undead King leaned in, his static face moving closer to hers.

  “Leave,” he ordered in a low, devastating voice.

  She felt her bones crumble to his vibrato. The priestess raised her head to meet his devoid eyes. She clenched her scepter, which lit with an unholy flare. Monsters had begun to crawl behind her. She heard their growls, their obsessive grumbles. She only felt fear, yet she kept her eyes on the Undead King.

  “The black eagles speak,” the priestess urged. “My Lord, it is time for the awakening.”

  “It is too early,” he retorted, his voice still trenchant.

  He raised himself from his throne. He turned around, away from her, and ambled into further darkness. But her voice held him back.

  “Soon, Bravoure will doom its own fate,” she said. The Undead King remained silent, suspended, his back toward her. The priestess proceeded to clarify. “Civil war.”

  One single word lingered. War. In a split second, the Undead King had veered and dashed to her, his hand now around her neck, his broken nails planted in her flesh. He could feel her heart pound underneath his rotten thumb. He lifted her effortlessly. She did not even squeal. His low growl resounded behind her eyes. She could smell it—the stench of putrefaction coming from his flesh. It was sickening.

  “War?” he verified.

  The priestess trembled, but she was able to utter an answer. “War from within.” She was almost choking from his grip around her neck. “The Nameless One must wake.”

  He let her go.

  “Has it worked?” he asked in a muffled roar.

  She had to cough to regain her composure. She checked her throat. The skin on her neck was inflamed by instant necrosis from the undead’s touch. She took a deep breath.

  “The cultists have finished their task,” she answered. “War is about. It is our time to strike.”

  The Undead King froze into place as if to ponder his next move.

  The woman continued. “He who sleeps below the Night will rise when gold has lost its might.” She paused; he remained still. “Lord of the Night, the void dragon must walk again. He will spread his torn wings wide and rule over us as Mort himself once did in the Age of Dark.”

  The Undead King roared. He trampled the ground out of the ruins and opened his arms wide in screeching agony. His rugged skin began to crackle as his jaw opened far beyond its locking point. His bones, covered with a dark, shadowy membrane, quivered to the thunder of his voice. A bellow so loud shattered the sky, that any beast, even buried six feet deep, would have awoken from his funeral cry.

&n
bsp; Azera Condor, Monarch of Bravoure, stood tall by the golden throne. The Great Hall of Kings and Queens, decorated by old tapestries embroidered with gold, glistened in the light of Sol. The throne, centered on a high platform, was illuminated by the daylight raining through the large windowpane. Azera had her eyes on the outside view, the prosperous southwest of Bravoure City. Houses standing on crepidomas made of sand marble. Buildings taller than six stories, a new architectural development signaling the progress of the city. The monarch took a deep breath before addressing her audience, the woman in chainmail armor.

  “I’ve told you numerous times—there’s nothing I can do,” Azera said with a stern voice.

  They were alone in the throne room, Azera had made sure of that. Usually, her guards would be positioned on each side of the hall, but not this time. She adjusted the golden cincture around the waist of her long, beige gown. Her sleeves opened at her elbows, but the silky cloth descended almost until the ground. She tucked one of her ash-blond curls behind her ear and turned to the woman behind her.

  “Cayne,” Azera began in a friendlier tone. “This needs to stop.”

  Cayne’s patience had faded. She clenched a fist and walked the stairs up the platform, to come closer to Azera.

  “You know this is madness,” Cayne declared with a accusatory finger. “The general has completely lost it.”

  Azera laid a motherlike hand on Cayne’s shoulder in a vain attempt to soothe the mood. The woman’s copper eyes, still fuming with anger, rested on the monarch.

  “Twenty years ago, Iskala was taken,” Cayne pursued. “Now, your general wants to attack Galies? He’s gone mad! And you’re letting him take us down with him.”

  “I don’t have a choice, Cayne!” Azera raised as she took a step back. She turned back to the large windowpane behind the golden throne. “I have to play by his rules.”

  Cayne marched to Azera. “You have every choice. You are Bravoure’s elected monarch. Start acting like it.”

  In the light of the sun, Cayne’s light brown skin gleamed with a peculiar bronze tint. Her far Tazman origins were reflected in these golden hues. Azera took a second to appreciate Cayne’s grace, even though she wore three-day-old armor and smelled like a pigsty. But this second was quickly over when Cayne raised her voice.

  “If Bravoure declares war on Galies, you know it’s over,” she warned. “Galies has an army of fierce soldiers. They have hundreds of sorcerers fighting at the sultan’s hand.”

  Azera closed her eyes and took a deep, aggravated breath. “If I don’t allow it, if I don’t play strong, Corax will throw a militia at me.” As Cayne remained silent, Azera breathed in and spoke another time. “If he removes me from the throne, you know what that will mean for the fate of the city.”

  Cayne sighed. She snorted like an enraged bull. But she knew the truth of Azera’s words, and that is exactly what angered her. General Corax was relentless. The cultists got to his head long ago. Nobody spoke of it, but everybody knew! Conspiracy theories—my ass! These preachers of that old god were damned real. And they had gotten to the general’s head big time. Azera was the only thing standing between this gullible fool and absolute control. And who knows what pugnacious, imperialistic plan Corax had for the golden kingdom of Bravoure.

  “You still have a choice, Azera,” Cayne said, doing her best to keep her calm, in an attempt to convince the monarch. “Sponsor the Wolf Pack. Help us get more weapons, armor, and let’s get rid of this mad man for good. Give us the Bastion. Give us an arsenal.”

  Azera scoffed. Enough was enough. Cayne and her absurd Wolf Pack—they had little to nothing, no power, nothing. Only some self-righteous ideals and false hopes about Bravoure deserving better than a corrupt democracy and a militaristic system.

  “You think a group of scattered insurgents can rival the general and his thousands of followers?” she retorted with another scoff. “Cayne, your delusions will be your undoing. You can’t even get your Wolves together on one decision, let alone unite!”

  Cayne wanted to riposte, to release frustrations buried over years of struggle against this preposterous idea of a stable regime, but Azera hushed her with her voice.

  “Corax has the entire Bravan Army rooting for him,” she pressed.

  Azera wanted to say more, but Cayne finally spoke back. “Corax is a pawn of the cult—”

  “Oh, stop it with your cultists,” Azera interrupted. She was annoyed and had lost her patience long ago. “They’re a fable, and you know it.”

  Both women fell silent. It was Azera who spoke again after a drawn-out silence.

  “I was able to hold him off this far, but now, his thirst for blood can no longer be contained. By dawn in seven days, the declaration of war will be written. An official letter will be sent, and then we’ll have to brace for what comes next.”

  The woman in armor shook her head in disapproval. She could not believe the words she was hearing. Azera was simply giving up. General Corax could no longer be tamed, and war was about to erupt. And if Galies were to fight Bravoure, all Hell would break loose. Cayne let out a deep sigh and made her way down the platform’s steps.

  “You let this happen, you leave this kingdom to carrion crows.” Cayne confronted Azera with one last severe glare. “There’s always a choice. The question is whether you have the guts to make it.”

  Then, gripping the hilt of the sheathed sword hooked to her belt, Cayne marched out of the Great Hall of Kings and Queens. She passed the tapestries without looking at them and disappeared into the antechamber.

  Azera, left alone in the throne room, looked to the marbled floor for a minute. Cayne’s words echoed in her mind. The guts to make a choice. A poignant sentence that remained trapped between her racing thoughts. Cayne was now long gone, and Azera proceeded to reassemble her guards.

  * * *

  Abandoned sewers were the best place to plot an uprising. Beneath the capital was an old network of tunnels and holes, once active before the Rule of Sharr, now home of the Bravan Underground. Illicit trade, black markets, pits where thieves and bandits went to meet. It was always noisy in there. Merchants shouting for people to purchase their latest find. Jewels, trinkets, potions, exotic animals, and even body parts in scented oil. There was music, too sinful for the Congregation’s taste, clanging through the dampness of the air. Newcomers were easy to spot. They halted each time in front of the myriads of shiny gems and dubious vials. Regulars always headed for the alcohol first, smuggled Rallissan bloodwine, the best wine on Terra.

  Cayne stopped to inspect the weapons stand. Adorned dirks and stilettos, probably stolen from a warlord in Galies. She held one dagger in her hand, touching the purple gemstones, honestly impressed by the adornments in contrast to the low quality of the blade.

  “That’ll be two thousand gold pieces, she-wolf!” the old one-eyed smuggler with white frizzed hair almost shouted at her.

  Too loud. Cayne cast an austere look on the old man.

  “Two thousand gold pieces for a blade that ain’t even steel?” she asked, borderline offended. “Go fuck yourself, Bart.”

  Bartos let out a laugh. Cayne always made him laugh. It appeared to have eased the mood because Cayne’s copper glare softened, and she mirrored his smile. She put the worthless dagger back on the crude table and gave him a nod of goodbye. He waved at her, watching her head toward the eastern tunnel.

  Cayne took a turn into another hallway lit by dim torches. At the end of a series of wooden doors was an open iron gate, and the corridor morphed into a large chamber. An old secret chapel of some sort. Vagabond thieves and highwaymen gathered here, around the large stone tables, to drink goldrain rum and lose or win coins at card and dice games. There, seated at one of the smaller tables, Cayne saw him, the spy from a different time. He shuffled cards repeatedly, patiently, making others at his table wait, just for fun. He had blood on his boiled leather cuirass, and one of his gloves was torn at the palm. He had not seen Cayne approach the table silently. S
he hit the table with a fist to catch his attention.

  “Jules,” she called. “Time to go.”

  The spy raised his blue eyes at her. “You’re back early,” he said in an amused tone. “How did it go with the monarch?”

  Cayne scoffed. Not at him, but at the memory of her conversation with Azera Condor.

  “We need to talk,” she said, then looked at the other gamblers at the table. “In private.”

  Jules chuckled. He stood from his chair and discarded the deck. A few moans of objection rumbled, but Jules did not care. He followed Cayne to a side room at the north side of the chamber.

  “I take it you found your man,” Cayne presumed as they walked, pointing at Jules’s bloody cuirass.

  “He was quick to give me what I needed,” he replied. “Turns out, you were right, Corax is loading frigates with cannons and steel.”

  Cayne let out a deep sigh. They entered the room, an abandoned office space with desks and chairs. The desks had been moved to the end of the room. Two women in chainmail sat close to the entrance. One of them, Sara, the one with braided blond hair, repeatedly threw a bouncing ball at the stone wall to distract herself. When she noticed Cayne and Jules, she instantly rose to her feet, and the other, Meline, followed rapidly.

  “Cayne, Jules,” they said in unison.